


an inch of skin and a brush of fingertips away

by TheKitteh



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Centric, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Introspection, M/M, Not Avengers: Infinity War Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Relationship, They both need a hug tbh, Tony Stark Has A Heart, bucky pov, comfort without hurt, road to recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 06:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16112666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKitteh/pseuds/TheKitteh
Summary: Bucky vistis Tony's workshop.It's nothing new, not by a long shot. First it was just check ups, but then it was to hide and gather his thoughts. He stayed and observed and filtered through his own head.And now he's there again, watching as Tony works on his arm, fixing the cybernetics as Bucky fixes himself.





	an inch of skin and a brush of fingertips away

Long gone were the moments where being in the workshop for hours to no end brought him discomfort or unease. How could he be anything but in awe now, as technological marvels unravelled right before his eyes. This was what the future was supposed to be, the sheer energy of the universe bouncing of off walls and tables, holograms popping up, the bots beeping and the man in the middle of it all.

There’s no hate, but also no form of  friendship between him and Stark. Hours of therapy, sparring sessions and having each other’s back mid-fight, that was there, and it should be plenty, should be enough. It’s not and it feels like they’re in a limbo.

 

Still Bucky comes down to the workshop whenever he feels the arm is off, whenever he needs a moment to breathe, whenever he wants to be selfish and hide away from the world when it becomes too much.

And Stark lets him, even if he almost doesn’t acknowledge him, doesn’t talk to him. He talks to Friday, to Dum-E, mutters to himself as he goes or croons sweet nothing to whatever he’s tinkering on. But the music always dies down when Bucky comes, the lights dim and the holograms glow like stars in the half-dark, bright and beautiful and foreign, not his to understand but his to admire.

The way the workshop soothes him is surprising, and not in the same way. Bucky stopped analyzing the whys and the hows, stopped telling himself all the reasons why he shouldn’t be there and focused on the ones that said that he should. 

That’s how he ends up getting lost in a flurry of his thoughts, his left arm all on display and Stark’s dark head bent over it, the artificial lights casting shadows and bouncing sparks off of the metal. He looks at the wires and plates, the gears that shift where his wrist once was. It’s an odd feeling of detachment towards something that’s been a part of him for so long now.

But there’s no sensory input, never has been from what he can remember. They made sure of that. Feeling anything – pain, the last breath under his fingertips, the warmth of blood in the dip of his palm – would be a hindrance, a reason to hesitate or stop.

He was never supposed to feel.

He was never supposed to stop.

And yet he did.

A sigh escapes him and Stark’s fingers still immediately as those clever eyes flicker up to his; silently asking permission to continue. He always asks, without voicing any of his questions, and Bucky supposes that counts for something, the fact that he knows that.

Stark could hurt him so easily when he’s like this, all delicate wires out on display, hand basically immobile. It wouldn’t take much, Buck’s sure of it, not when Stark knows as much as he does. Where to pull and where to cut. He could bring him down to his knees with a flick of a finger.

Stark doesn’t, _won’t_ and Bucky nods to give him an answer. He’s certain in that trust because Stark’s fingers create and give life; the take it away because they must, not because he wants them to. They’re fine, elegant, nails kept, skin calloused and scarred. Rough and gentle. Unyielding.

He’s sure they’d feel good over the metal, with the way they glide across the smooth surface of the open panels. They’d be always moving, always assessing, if the way he rubs thumbs over the tiny dents and curves is any indication.

Steady and certain, maybe a bit rough at first, but warm. Curious in their venture, but gentle.

Like Stark himself.

A contradiction of sorts.

Forgiveness where he expected wrath, kindness where there should be cold indifference. Care instead of negligence. Bucky’s slowly learning to accept them, to feel worthy of them. He was a constant work in progress - maybe he’ll be one till the end of his days - but constantly trying and learning nonetheless.

He tries new things, new foods. Picks up hobbies left and right; some he drops like a hot potato, some stick for a few weeks. The few that he keeps are a secret. Not because he’s ashamed, far from it. Because he finally can withhold information, no matter how small.

He reads all sorts of books, to see what suits him best. Goes shopping to the fresh market and the deli, takes evening walks and morning runs. Goes out with Steve, with Sam, alone. He’s remembering that he’s brave, always was, even if he forgot about it for a while.

Times have changed and he’s changed as well, now he’s a little more of a sharp edge than a sharp smile.

And somehow, he finds himself wondering about Stark’s touch when that touch tethers on the edge of his to-be-or-not-to-be. not the first time, he imagines it rough-but-not. Stark’s efficient, terrifyingly so, fingers quick as lightning as he works, oh so careful and oh so precise. Like a well timed shot between the eyes, beautiful and sharp and as deadly.

“Alright, Snow White. We’re done for now.” Stark sighs finally, straightenes his back. One of his shoulders pops when he rolls it, the sound loud in the air between them.

Stark wipes his hands before closing each panel, his movements slow and deliberate and then he just sits back, eyes bright as he watches each click back into place, the soft hum of gears making him smile. He keeps his hands curled into loose fists over his knees and Bucky cocks his head to the side, regarding him for a moment longer. He taps his metal fingers over the smooth surface of the table, a slow _tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap of a rhythm_ and watches as Stark’s eyes follow the movement.

“Thanks.” Bucky says finally, more of a grumble than actual word, watching his wrist flick back and forth.

There wasn’t anything major wrong with it, just something off, but now it’s perfect, all smooth moves and soft clicks and Bucky sighs again. Go figure Stark would fix something Bucky didn’t even realize needed actual fixing.

“Well.” Stark clears his throat, eyes flicking up to meet his then away once more. “If you… you can stay. Or not. Up to you, really.”

“My choice.”

Stark looks at him, straight on and Bucky sees the blue lights swim in the brown of his eyes. The future is right in front of him, Bucky thinks all of the sudden, wants to reach out and press it into his fingertips.

He shoves his hands into his pockets instead and Stark’s already turning away, another project brought up, lines of code on his left, drafts and virtual sketches on his right.

“It’s always your choice.” Stark says, swiping through the drawings. There’s a tiniest bit of pause then, between one screen and the next, where he makes twitch. As if he stopped himself from moving, from turning, but it’s gone the next second and Stark’s all relaxed lines and careless air. “But I don’t mind the company.”

For a beat or two, Bucky remains where he stands; there’s a shift, because Stark and him don’t really talk down here. But he’s brave - he remembers - so he takes those few steps and stands next to the man, eyes focused on the dazzle of designs.

He’s brave, he reminds himself, stands in a way that makes their elbows touch.

“Tell me what you’re doing there.”

And Stark does, brings the future forth in an explosion of light and numbers.

And Bucky breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> Alas. Frist time posting a semi-WinterIron thing. 
> 
> **goes to crawl under a rock**


End file.
